


Even Statues Have Bad Days

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:56:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a tumblr prompt.</p><p>Enjolras has a shitty day (his grandfather dies) but decides to go to a meeting anyway. Once there, Grantaire heckles him as per usual, but on this particular occasion everything is just too much and Enjolras starts crying and has to leave the room. Grantaire is predictably horrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Statues Have Bad Days

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com/post/61439969890/i-would-like-to-read-an-au-where-enjolras-had-the).

It wasn’t like they had cut him out completely, or as if they were trying to hold onto him or change him. Enjolras honestly wished it was one or the other – he could deal with that, because at least then the situation would be clear-cut. It would be horrible, obviously, but he would almost prefer it if they just cut him off completely. Scratched his name from their records and pretended he’d died or disappeared, whichever was more convenient. 

Anything would be easier than this painful push and pull, this back and forth tugging over hot coals. Not quite rejection, but certainly not acceptance. He could still come back for the holidays, but he couldn’t attend his own grandfather’s funeral. 

He told Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He had to. Even he couldn’t bottle everything up. It was a shame it had to happen just before a meeting, but he could handle that. He was perfectly capable of dealing with his personal problems in a mature way. 

Courfeyrac frowned as soon as he came out of his bedroom, obviously seeing something in his face. “You alright?” 

Combeferre looked up from his book and frowned as well, the two of them looking oddly similar for a moment. 

“My grandfather died,” Enjolras said flatly. “I’m not allowed to go to his funeral.” 

Combeferre’s jaw dropped, and Courfeyrac was out of his chair in less than a second, coming over to pull him into a hug. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Why aren’t you allowed to go to his funeral?” Combeferre asked, eyes narrow. He knew Enjolras’ family better than Courfeyrac; knew the intricacies of the games they’d played since Enjolras had complemented his ‘acting out’ (their words) with coming out. 

Courfeyrac pulled away and Enjolras bit his tongue before replying stiffly. “They don’t think it would be appropriate. Apparently it’s going to be a very religious service, and they don’t want any dissenting voices.” 

“What the hell?” Courfeyrac exclaimed, outraged. “They can’t do that! Can they do that?” 

“I can’t gate-crash a funeral.” Enjolras curled his toes. “Especially not his. It wouldn’t be right.” He met Combeferre’s eyes – Combeferre knew how much he’d loved his grandfather. How he’d doted on him when he’d been a child, and supported him when he started getting interested in social justice and liberal politics. 

Combeferre sighed. “When did he die?” 

“Yesterday. In the hospice.” He cleared his throat. “Come on, we’d better get going.” 

Courfeyrac frowned. “Why?” 

“The meeting?” Enjolras reminded him. “It’s at seven?” 

“Enjolras, come on,” Courfeyrac shook his head. “You can sit this one out, you know. Hell – cancel it.” 

“At such short notice?” Enjolras scowled and grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m fine. And besides, this is an important one – Bahorel needs to update us on what Anthelme’s group is up to, and I just got a list of the organisations and shelters being hit the hardest by this new immigration policy.” 

He fell silent on the way to the Corinthe, the cold words of the email his mother had sent him sinking in properly. His presence was not required…the interests of maintaining an atmosphere of mutual respect and peace…preserving the purity of his grandfather’s memory… 

Last time he’d seen his grandfather had been in the hospice, three weeks ago. He’d been well cared for, though it had still been a shock to see him so shrunken and thin under the sheets. In Enjolras’ mind he was always the brawny, iron-haired man he had been when Enjolras was still young enough to be picked up by him. In the hospice, his hair had all gone, only a thin moustache remaining. His hands had shaken so badly, the veins standing out like ropes under his paper-thin skin. 

And they’d still spent the whole visit talking about Enjolras. About the demonstration in favour of legalising same-sex marriage for foreign-born French citizens he’d participated in with the rest of the Amis. His classes, his friends, his life. Nothing about his grandfather. 

Enjolras squeezed one of his hands – the one Courfeyrac and Combeferre couldn’t see – into a tight fist, trying to push the memories back. He could do this later – he had other things to think about right now. 

They were the first to arrive at the Corinthe, as usual, but Marius and Feuilly arrived soon afterwards, followed by everyone else in due course. As soon as they were all there, Enjolras called for Bahorel to give them an update, and they spent a good half hour arguing about whether Anthelme and his gang could be trusted to back them up if they decided to infiltrate a far-right protest and start a conflict. Bahorel insisted he could be relied on, but Bossuet reminded them of the complete mess he’d made of his part in the last demonstration. 

Without a clear resolution, the discussion turned to the response to the demonstration itself, and Enjolras brought up the list he’d made, Feuilly backing him up as he reiterated the appalling treatment of immigrants – especially young immigrants – seeking safety and acceptance in France after being rejected from their families for various reasons. 

“It isn’t just immigrants though,” Musichetta shouted. “You know the number of gay and queer kids being kicked out of home has spiked since the marriage equality bill passed?” 

“Why?” Marius asked, frowning. “I mean, why now?” 

“The marriage debate stirred up a lot of shit,” Courfeyrac explained. “A lot of old prejudices got brought up, and those situations can get unbearable pretty fast.” 

“Dangerous too, sometimes,” Jehan added, and there was a chorus of agreements. 

Enjolras’ family had been staunchly against the marriage equality law, but at Christmas his grandfather had laughed and told them things changed all the time – hadn’t he lived long enough to know? – and didn’t they want Enjolras to have the freedom to marry who he wanted? 

The tail end of a thoughtless comment snapped him out of the now-painful memories. “– safer to stay in the closet, at least until they’re independent.” Grantaire, of course. Playing Devil’s Advocate, but the angle just got so irritating and his smirk was just that shade of mocking that made Enjolras’ blood boil. 

“What?” he snapped. He almost regretted his automatic reaction – he was too strung-out for an argument with Grantaire today – but it was too late now. 

Grantaire looked around and shrugged, a hint of that smirk playing around his lips. “I said it would be safer for them to stay in the closet.” 

“And you think that’s an ideal solution, do you?” 

“I didn’t say it was _ideal_. I said it would be _safer_. You’ve got to be _practical_ , Enjolras. If the alternative is being forced out of your home, surely it’s better to keep a lid on it for a while? At least while you’re dependent on them.” 

“Completely forgetting the emotional and mental strain that sort of deceit puts someone under?” Enjolras glared at him. “The struggle of wanting to be honest with the people you care about the most?” 

“I didn’t say it was nice either,” Grantaire snorted. “But that’s the reality.” 

“What if you come out to one family member and not the others though?” Joly called out, frowning. “Or they find out by accident and give you an ultimatum – get straight or get out?” 

“Play along!” Grantaire insisted, ignoring the groans around him. “Shut up, you idiots. It’s about practicality, that’s all. After all, you get the last laugh.” 

“It’s still shit when you’ve left home though,” Joly argued. “I mean, what do you do then? If you come out, they can tell you not to ever come back.” 

“So much the better,” Grantaire retorted. “Family isn’t family if they can’t accept you for who you are, right Enjolras?” he gave Enjolras an insolent grin. “Isn’t acceptance the name of the game? Keep shouting till you’re heard?” 

“Personal lives are harder to –” 

“You’ve never shied away from conflict before!” Grantaire cried. “Come on, break them down with rhetoric! Isn’t –” 

“Families are a different matter!” Enjolras said hotly. He never usually spoke over people, but Grantaire had interrupted him first. “The situation is always harder to deal with when it’s so personal.” 

Grantaire laughed. “Why? Demonstrate at the dinner table! Write slogans with fridge magnets! Home warfare for the oppressed!” 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Enjolras snapped. “You know it isn’t ever that easy.” 

“I thought nothing worth having ever came easy?” Grantaire blinked wide eyes at him mockingly. “Where’s your revolutionary fire, Enjolras?” 

“You –” 

“Your strength in the face of opposition?” 

“That’s not –” 

“Take it a step further!” Grantaire shouted over him, grinning. Bossuet was rolling his eyes good-naturedly next to him, Marius was hiding a smile, and Enjolras was only staying silent to swallow the rising lump in his throat, helpless frustration screaming in every fibre of his being. “Plaster the walls with posters, boycott holidays, picket funerals! If you can’t speak out against oppression on the home front, what qualifies you to speak out in the streets?” He finished on a laugh, clearly expecting Enjolras to reply, and Enjolras _couldn’t_. 

He wanted to argue back, put Grantaire’s ridiculous speech down with a cutting comment the way he had a hundred times before, but he knew if he opened his mouth his voice would break and he was already clenching his jaw so tightly it _hurt_ to stop his chin trembling. His skin felt hot and tight, and there were tears in his eyes and everything was suddenly too much. 

He would never see his grandfather again. He wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye. 

The room had fallen quiet, and Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut, burning with humiliation and pain. His face crumpled, trying (and failing) to keep the tears back, and his chest seized as his breath caught in his lungs, hitching almost painfully and making his shoulders shake. It had started, and now he couldn’t seem to stop, so he dragged his head up long enough to find Combeferre’s eyes and beg him wordlessly to take over. Combeferre nodded, and Enjolras sucked in a deep, shuddering breath as he practically fled the room. 

“What did you _say?_ ” he heard Cosette whisper as he slipped out, and he clutched onto the bannister of the stairs for a moment before dragging a hand across his wet eyes and hurrying downstairs and through to the storage room. Madame Hucheloup was so used to them by now that she didn’t even give him a second glance, and he barely closed the door behind him before he started to cry in earnest, sinking down to sit on a wooden crate. 

He was never going to see his grandfather again. Giraud Lavalle was no more, and on his last visit Enjolras hadn’t even asked him about _his_ life. About _his_ thoughts and feelings and memories, memories spanning over eighty years. He should have asked more questions, because it was too late now – it was all gone. Everything his grandfather might have said or done would never happen now. 

And Enjolras wasn’t even allowed to go to his _funeral_. 

The door to the storage room opened, and Enjolras looked up through blurry eyes to see Grantaire’s distinctive shape silhouetted in the light from the doorway. He couldn’t even tell him to go away, he was crying so hard. He gave up on the idea immediately and just put his face in his hands, silently willing Grantaire just _piss off_. 

The crate creaked as Grantaire sat down next to him, and a second later there were arms wrapped around him, hugging him gently, as if Grantaire was afraid he might break. “I’m sorry,” Grantaire breathed, sounding almost afraid; the exact opposite of his cocky humour upstairs just a minute ago. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Enjolras, I’m sorry…” 

Enjolras couldn’t speak, his whole body shaking, and for a moment he just let Grantaire hug him. Everything was a whirl of loss and pain, but Grantaire was solid and steady, so Enjolras screwed his eyes shut and cried against his chest, forgetting about dignity and his reputation in favour of reliving, over and over, the moment he had opened that email from his mother and read the impersonal notification of his grandfather’s demise, and the chilly statement telling him that he wasn’t needed at the funeral ceremony. 

Reliving the sight of his grandfather’s liver-spotted hands grasping his at their last parting, knuckles swollen and palms shaking. Reliving the sound of his wheezy laugh, and his request for Enjolras to visit again soon. 

It was agony. Excruciating and all-consuming, and Enjolras cried until he reached the ugly gulping-for-air stage, somehow clinging so close to Grantaire they were almost in each other’s laps. It didn’t hurt any less, but the burn had been reduced (for the time being at least) to a sting, and now the shame crept in, forcing Enjolras to pull away and scrub at his raw eyes with hands that still trembled slightly. 

“Here,” Grantaire said softly, pulling a tissue spotted with paint from his pocket. Enjolras took it without looking at him and pretended they were both deaf as he blew his nose. “I’m sorry,” Grantaire whispered. “I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean to…” 

Enjolras wanted to snap at him not to flatter himself, thinking that he had any influence over Enjolras’ emotions like this, but what came out was, “It wasn’t you,” in a horribly small, raspy voice. He swallowed twice and pulled the cuff of his sleeve across his face and neck, trying to make himself feel less damp. Grantaire didn’t say anything, so Enjolras explained. “My grandfather just died.” 

“Oh, Christ.” Grantaire sounded mortified. “I’m so sorry.” 

Enjolras sniffed, too loud in the tiny storage room. “It’s not just that,” he admitted, fixing his sore eyes on his knees. 

“It isn’t?” 

“I’m not allowed to go to his funeral.” 

“Says who?” 

“My family.” 

“Fuck. Oh, _fuck_ , and I was spouting all that shit…” Grantaire hissed apologetically. “Enjolras, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I mean…I shouldn’t’ve been saying that crap anyway, but I didn’t know you…I’m sorry, I’m _really_ sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Enjolras said numbly. “You didn’t know.” 

They sat in silence for a long few minutes. Enjolras was too tired to care whether it was awkward or not, so it was Grantaire who tentatively spoke first. “You know you can’t stay in here all night.” 

Enjolras sighed, pushing his hands through his hair. He couldn’t face going back upstairs. God knew what he looked like. 

Grantaire hesitated, then spoke again. “You want to go back to yours?” 

“Yeah. Yes.” 

“Come on then.” Grantaire stood up and Enjolras saw his worried expression in the crack of light coming through the door. “Unless…” 

“No,” Enjolras interrupted him. He didn’t want to be alone. “I’m ready.” 

“Okay.” 

They were silent all the way back, and Grantaire followed Enjolras inside uncertainly when they got there. “Are you hungry?” he asked, watching as Enjolras sat down at the table. “I could make you something, if you are.” 

“Go crazy,” Enjolras muttered, staring blankly at the table top. Grantaire started rummaging through the cupboards quickly, full of a sort of nervous energy, the antithesis to Enjolras’ sudden lethargy. He felt tired down to his bones, and he couldn’t eat more than a few bites of the pasta Grantaire produced. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, and started crying again, to his utter humiliation. 

“Hey, it’s fine,” Grantaire reassured him quickly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just pasta.” 

“I know,” Enjolras managed to say, hiccupping and wiping furiously at his eyes. “I’m just…being stupid.” 

Grantaire pulled the nearest chair closer and sank into it. “You’re not,” he insisted. “You’re not being stupid at all.” 

Enjolras snorted inelegantly and tried uselessly to stop, breath coming in hideous gasps as his shoulders shook. One of Grantaire’s hands found his, and Enjolras squeezed it tightly, transferring some of pressure away from himself. 

“I’m sorry about your grandfather,” Grantaire said quietly. “Do you…do you want to talk about it?” 

Enjolras shook his head. “Not yet.” 

“I’ll listen if you ever do, just so you know.” 

Enjolras sniffed, getting control of himself, and managed a poor smile. “Thanks.” 

Footsteps approached the apartment door, and they both looked up as a key jingled and the door opened a moment later, framing Combeferre and Courfeyrac as they came in. “We finished early,” Combeferre explained. “I made notes for you.” 

Enjolras nodded wearily and Grantaire got to his feet, letting go of his hand. “I’d better go,” he said nervously. “I’ll see you around.” 

They were both looking at him like he’d done something wrong, and Enjolras got up as he walked out to follow him into the corridor. “Grantaire.” 

Grantaire turned, and Enjolras hugged him impulsively. “Thank you,” he muttered. 

Grantaire looked slightly shell-shocked as they drew apart, but he swallowed and said, “Any time.” 

Enjolras nodded and produced a slightly warmer smile than his previous attempt before going back inside. 

Courfeyrac was leaning against the kitchen counter, turning his phone over and over in his hands. “You okay? You know R didn’t mean to; he was just being –” 

“I know,” Enjolras cut him off and rubbed at his swollen eyes. “It’s fine.” 

“Because he’d _never_ hurt you on purpose.” 

“It’s fine, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras assured him. “Honestly. I’m going to bed, okay?” 

“Okay.” Courfeyrac slipped his phone back into his pocket. “See you in the morning?” 

“Yeah.” 

In his room, Enjolras climbed into bed and fought the urge to start crying again. Somehow he knew it would go on for longer and hurt more without Grantaire soothing him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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